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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27988752">synonym</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/onthecontrary/pseuds/onthecontrary'>onthecontrary</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>unconventional [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>James Bond (Craig movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Because of course he is, Kissing, M/M, PWP, improper use of em-dashes, improper use of semicolons, james is a tease, like actually so soft, soft smut</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 17:55:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,203</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27988752</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/onthecontrary/pseuds/onthecontrary</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>But James is fluent in seven languages; Q’s own one of them. </p>
<p>And in Q’s thesaurus there are a thousand synonyms for ‘I love you’s.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>James Bond/Q</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>unconventional [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2070426</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>105</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>synonym</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>James is shirtless — the light of passing cars comes in through the window on their left in waves: light, dark, light, and then dark. Q watches as it dances atop Bond’s skin, highlighting the slow play of muscles as he undresses, the light dusting of dark-blond hair on his chest, the rough texture of still-healing scars. He’s aware of his own owlish eyes, though not of his own accord, but because James is smiling — grinning — such a bright expression he rarely sees displayed on his face — at least rarely genuinely.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Q tries not to think about the fact that he’s the cause of the grin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He </span>
  <em>
    <span>tries.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Staring is unlike you, Quartermaster,” Bond purrs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And isn’t it odd that Bond is calling him by his position in bed? Isn’t it supposed to sound strange, off-place, uncanny? But god help him, his brain is fogged, its mental capacities capacitated as he tries his best to look at Bond in the eye and not elsewhere — namely, his hands as they move to remove his trousers, the way they trail down, down, down until his briefs are exposed, sitting low just under the vee of his hips, the trail of golden hair in the middle as it grows darker— </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Cat got your tongue?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Q’s eyes snap up to blue, blue, blue even in the scarcely lit room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Q tries. He really does.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shut up,” he says, just to save face, even if he can already feel the tips of his ears heating up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, I plan to,” Bond replies cheekily — because when is he anything but, really. “How else am I going to hear you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Hear me?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Q wants to ask, but then he suddenly understands what Bond means with absolute clarity at the first touch of Bond’s calloused palms on his waist under his shirt. Q gasps; Bond’s fingertips are startlingly cold against his skin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re going to have to be louder than that, Q,” a sudden whisper against his left ear, barely, barely there.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And it’s as if he’s a puppet on James’ strings. A thumb brushes over a nipple, and Q yelps. A light press against the jut of his hipbones just over his waistband and he emits some sort of noise he’d rather admit he’d never make. When his vision stops swimming due to the curious pair of hands on his skin, he finds amused eyes and a wide grin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t expect you to be so compliant.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hell, </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> didn’t expect himself to be compliant.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You- you just,” he starts, unsure of how to phrase his words properly, because the way his brain continues the sentence would be too much of a confession, a sentence Q will probably never admit out loud: </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>You just do things to me.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Because there’s this unspoken rule with them — a barrier never crossed, words never spoken out loud. James leaves him only with private smiles and chaste kisses — Q sends him off with </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘stay alive, 007’</span>
  </em>
  <span>s and renewed Walthers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But James is fluent in seven languages; Q’s own one of them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And in Q’s thesaurus there are a thousand synonyms for </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘I love you’</span>
  </em>
  <span>s.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A hand under his chin, tilting his head up lightly, lightly. Q realizes he never finished his sentence; James is still grinning — though it is now more of a knowing smile than anything.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It seems like you left your eloquence at MI-6,”James jibes. The hand on his chin moves to caress the side of his face, James’ thumb delicately brushing over his cheek. “Your intelligence fails you, Quartermaster.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But of course, Q is as fluent in James’ language as he is in his own.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So Q nuzzles into his calloused palms, rough with the use of countless firearms, but impossibly gentle against his cheek. Q shuts his eyes as his glasses start to poke against the side of his face, and James, James—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>James smiles fondly, emitting a small gust of breath that might have been a scoff had Q not known him better, before carding his fingers through Q’s unruly head of hair, petting him like some kind of small feline.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You,” James begins, but there’s that damned rule of theirs, and so he just trails off.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The kiss against his forehead tells him all he needs to know, though.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He follows as James’ hand guides him upright, gentle on the small of his back. He raises his arms as James pulls on the hem of his shirt, upwards, off his torso, and then throwing it to the side. He lets himself fall back onto the bed as James crowds his vision, slots himself in between Q’s legs like they’re complementary puzzle pieces, brings their faces together until they’re mere inches apart—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Q closes his eyes in preparation of the upcoming kiss. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And he tries, honest to god he does, but he whimpers as James withdraws, leaving his mouth still agape, unkissed, his breaths still ragged. James laughs breathily at the noise he makes, and Q curses the gods for his pale coloring even though the room is still so dark.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“James,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> he pleads.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But James only raises Q’s hand to his face, kissing his knuckles so lightly that had Q been blindfolded he’d have thought it was merely a gust of passing air. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Patience, Q,” James says against his fingers, before taking two into his warm mouth, just as another car passes by, illuminating the room for a passing second — enough for Q to see James eagerly sucking on his digits, obscene noises filling up the room, his hearing, his thoughts—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Q can only whine in response.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>James, after sending Q’s nerve impulses awry without even kissing him, moves on to trail light, barely-there kisses against the length of his arm, and it should not feel as good as it did, but damn it, he is so sensitized that each kiss sends a shiver through him, his neglected erection straining against the front of his trousers. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If Q has learned anything from his time as 007’s Quartermaster, he has learned that Bond follows through with his plans, no matter how convoluted. So it is no surprise that James is now as silent as a grave, Q’s heavy breaths and occasional whimpers sounding loud, too loud in the room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>James reaches his collarbone after what feels like an eternity, still peppering his too-light goddamn kisses on Q’s skin, and as he reaches his neck he licks and </span>
  <em>
    <span>bites</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and— </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“God, </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” sod courtesy to the deepest depths of hell, because Q can barely think, let alone censor himself from the whirlwind of disaster that is James Bond in bed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Language, love.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck you—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Q is shut up again by gentle licks against the skin of his jaw. He thinks he’s squirming, his hips moving as he desperately seeks friction, but Q can barely bring himself to care, because James is right there, </span>
  <em>
    <span>right there,</span>
  </em>
  <span> perfect for a kiss.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ve been so patient for me, haven’t you?” A heated purr against his ear, and Q is unraveled, his brain ready to plead, beg, </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything—</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Kiss me, you sod,” he says breathlessly, his last shreds of dignity refusing to say please.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And James delivers, because of course he does.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
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